


Milathos Week One-shots

by LMX



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: AU, Abandonment, Alcoholism, Betrayal, F/M, Milathos Week, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Reconciliation, Revenge, Violence, series of One-shots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 22:03:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3826615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMX/pseuds/LMX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Milady lives for herself first, and for vengeance second.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1 - Glass Case Of Emotion

**Author's Note:**

> [Allformilathos](http://allformilathos.tumblr.com/post/115613322339/the-much-anticipated-milathos-appreciation-week-is) put into motion the inspired Milathos Week, and this is my messy haphazard attempts at filling those brilliant prompts.

She will give herself an hour to grieve.

Not yet, the timing must be right, but an hour is what she has decided upon, and that is all she will need.

It’s easy to hold her countenance firm as Remi fusses around her; easy to be distracted by her corporeal aches and pains while she waits for his unerring sense of duty to call him back to her husband’s side. At first she thought she might have to woo him to win her salvation, she had tried briefly, but in the end it was his own moral values that won him to her side. Loyal to Athos he may be, but he had no desire to see more death brought to his house.

He leaves quickly, with a single hesitant glance over his shoulder, and she forces herself to her feet as the door shuts behind him. It takes a moment to adjust to the rush of blood, another to acknowledge and dismiss the sharpening of the pain - torn skin and aching muscles both. To move too quickly is agonising, and her neck feels stretched and tight in the same moment.

Now, she tells herself, pushing the physical aside. You have one hour. Grieve now, and let it be done.

Nothing comes immediately, and she is disappointed. Shock, perhaps. It had been sudden, the change in her fortunes. Thoughts of Thomas bring a sickening in her gut that she dismisses viciously. She will need that feeling later, this time was for grief of love lost, to get Athos out of her heart and mind, a cleansing of sorts.

She forces herself to recall Athos, her mind going without intention to the black, sickened horror of his expression as they stood with Thomas’ body between them. The red hot rage that the image inspires consumes her for a moment, and she is forced to sit as pain brings her to breathlessness. Instead of grief she finds herself shaking with the force of her fury, hatred welling in her chest. She *hated* Athos. Hated his wilful blindness and weak, meagre attempts at love.

What a husband was he, to turn cold and distant in the face of her assault, forcing her to defend herself when he had so eagerly sworn to defend her? And then to take the very weapon his brother had thought to use against her, the image of her past laid bare, and use it to suggest…

The grief, now unexpected, comes all at once, choking and stinging and racking its way out of her body. Not for love lost, or a life of warmth and comfort, but for innocence. For the innocent belief that a man could speak without deceit when he said nothing could come between them. For the love of a man who could question her every motive when faced with the slightest suspicion.

Salt stings at the wound at her throat, and the tearing of every breath from her breast is a struggle, and she hurt. Every part of her hurts, and her heart no less than the rest. The church bells rang the hour, breaking through the cloying weight that threatened to drown her, and it was enough.

This overwraught distress was too much, and would need packaging away before she moved on. She would survive this, as she had survived so much else already. Her fuel was the fury, the anger, the hate. Those she would keep close at hand. Everything else…

She stands again, from the place on the bed where she had thrown herself. She washes her face carefully, glad of water warmed by the sun that would save her pale skin from blotching, she checks the bandage around her neck and swallows against the thickness that rises in her throat. Athos could be packaged away with the grief that was even now subsiding, along with all those dreams of better, of more.

She would forget him, until some suitable vengeance could be enacted. She had considered, briefly, setting light to the house she had once inhabited, but cold objectivity knew that she would only be risking the lives of those who worked within. Athos would barely notice the inconvenience.

No, nothing so gauche. She would come to think of something; in the mean time calm was returning, and the undercurrent of fury only sharpened her mind and drove her determination. Plans. She needed plans.


	2. Day 2 - The Past Is Never Dead

The feeling of strangeness - of being an intruder, misplaced - doesn't last long.

She has always deserved this level of attention, of adoration, and stepping into Athos' arms feels like taking her rightful position in the world. Here she is defended, supported, and most of all loved for who she is, not what has come before.

Athos is in the middle of reinventing himself in the wake of his father's death - taking the family name by preference and gently turning aside the woman who his father had considered a good match for him. He is as new a man in marriage as she is a new woman, and they are discovering themselves as they discover each other.

He had fought in the King's armies, before he inherited his title and all the responsibilities that came with it, and it is obvious that the life of a soldier is something he misses from time to time. There is nothing of her old life she could bring herself to miss, and she tells him that without need to censor herself.

She felt sure that she would miss her freedom, but he does not hold her so tightly as she feared, or keep her from any pursuit she might dream of. She worried she would feel observed or judged, but her maid is of her own choosing by Athos' insistence, and is happy to have a little more freedom herself. Athos, to her surprise, is as uncomfortable with the house’s staff as she had expected herself to be, and while Remi continues to be quietly attentive and indispensable to him, the house is as often bereft of servants as filled.

It is the house, more than those who inhabit it, which keeps her from feeling entirely in her place here. There is a heavy weight of history surrounding her, the wife of the only-recently Comte de la Fere, and unlike the skilfully unobtrusive servants, she feels it staring down from every hallway and stair. Her own life seems short and dark in comparison to centuries of illuminated faces, generations upon generations. How strange she must appear to these ancestral faces, joining them with only her own name and none gone before. How small.

She finds a room to call her own and, in decorating it to suit her tastes, ensures there's not a single face looking down upon her. She's a woman without a past, but she deserves to be here, and no long-dead d'Athos will question her place.


	3. Day 3 - Revenge is an Act of Passion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In her anger, Milady says some things in this chapter about alcoholics which do not fit with my own opinions, and are uncompromising. Consider yourself warned.

She had expected the desire for vengeance to be cold.

What threw her, more than anything else in this world of bitter irony and political intrigue, was the heat inside her chest that flared every time she glanced him in the street of Paris, or heard his name mentioned in passing.

She had prayed for a path, a route through which she might find her victory against his overwhelming privilege; spent hours at a time in the quiet of the Church thinking through all the ways she might hurt him, might lower him to the base level she had been forced to crawl up from a second time in life. She never asked forgiveness for her wrath, nor her injured pride, she took those as her right having been so maligned by the man who swore to God to love and protect her.

She pictured a moment, where she would stand opposite him and he would know that she alone had destroyed him. He would accept the change in his circumstances without railing - just as she had done - but he would cower and she would be tall and powerful. What she wished to follow thereafter changed from day to day - sometimes she would offer a hand of salvation, sometimes she would offer forgiveness and they would return to Pinon together, sometimes she would draw a pistol or a knife and end his pitiful suffering.

When word came that Pinon had been abandoned by its Comte, his house empty and the man himself surely dead in a ditch by foul play or by sheer volume of spirits imbibed, what she had expected to be a triumph left her cold. It was the distance, she presumed, and having no hand in the act herself. There was a weakness implied, that his drinking was significant enough to warrant suspicion in and of itself, and she disliked the feeling that came with this new image of Athos she was forced to accept. Weak. Cowardly. She had built up a towering image of his greatness and to see it fall left all of her fantasies in ruin. How could she had suffered so at the hands of a weak man?

It was two years before she saw him again, standing strong and tall at the shoulder of the King’s honoured bodyguard, his eyes sharp and his expression hard. The feeling of vindication rose up in her, filling her chest with heat and bringing a wave of lightheadedness. Rage, she reminded herself. Fury. Those were the feelings she had towards her erstwhile husband. Revenge, she reminded herself. You want revenge.


	4. Day 4 - Who Else Can We Trust?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for an uncomfortable reminder of the events of season 1 episode 10.

“You’re joking, of course.” his tone is bland, and faintly amused. She hates it.

“But don’t you see?” she holds court, sure as always that she has every iota of his attention even as he avoids her gaze. He thinks he will be trapped by her, she knows, and it gives her so much power over him. “Who else can we two trust, but the other?”

“The list of those whom I would trust before you is… I believe beyond measure.” His lip curls at what he perceives as his own wit, and she would like to scorn him for it, but he still can’t look her in the eye without leaning towards her as though magnetised.

“Aramis will one day seek the Godly path he abandoned, and Porthos may be loyal to you and Aramis, to the Musketeers for the time being, but he will always be looking to find some place, some one to offer him the stable life he has dreamed of. D'Artagnan… well, he’s already proven he can’t be trusted.” She plays out a breathy sigh, but can’t resist the grin at his look of mortification. “Only you and I remain at the end of all things, Athos. I will always be here, and you will always be seeking me out.”

“Perhaps then it is true - when we are the last two on this Earth I will trust you. Until then, I take my council from those I consider friends.” It’s a scathing reply, but she’s yet to be rebuffed.

“Consider this,” she moves towards the door, tries to remember how she had hated him when his unconscious lean towards her becomes a half-step and her heart throbs in sympathy. “For all that you have done to me, for all that you have said to me, for all the marks you have placed on my body, and the feeling of your hand around my neck as you breathe wine onto my skin and your friends use me as unwilling pawn in their play…” She waits, lets him flinch and swallows back the shudder beneath her own skin. “You still love me. Trust in that, if nothing else.”

She leaves, and it is cold victory, pyrrhic. She won’t sleep well tonight, but she trusts neither will he.


	5. Day 5 - Together We Can...

She isn't a believer of magics, elves, fairies, astrology, fate or destiny.

She believes in God; in heaven, hell and the Earth on which she will live out her mortal days, but for everything else she must see proof before belief can follow. The one thing she has seen but finds difficult to believe is how very different they two - herself and her thrice damned husband - are in each others presence.

As if some external force worked upon them, she hears her words grow sharp or gentle in all the wrong places, feels herself pull him into towards her chest even as she wants to thrust him away, she watches him lean towards her, his eyes on her lips and his breath taut in his chest, and reach out as if to grab only to touch with hands soft. Observed without the others’ presence, they would seem like different people in those moments.

It seemed like it might be worse, at first, to do more than see him from a distance. She remembers the people they were before, the peace and joy they could bring one another, and thinks that the only thing they could bring each other now is pain (but then, she does want to bring him so much pain).

Even as the thought takes shape he is in her arms, not once or twice but time upon time. Even as she tries - when they are apart - to ensure he dies in the flames as he deserves, she takes such perverse strength from every embrace, warm and at peace as they snarl and bite out insults.

There is an expression on his face every time he catches sight of her (his eyes have always been the more feeble, she’s been watching him since he turned into the street) at first shock and then the other takes over, and he’s arching towards her. If any were to challenge the King’s safety right now, there is one Musketeer who would be useless to intervene, and as much as she enjoys this feeling of other, she works for the King as much as any of his servants. She draws back, leaving him with a smile and a blown kiss.

For now, at least, they are better off apart.


	6. Day 6 - Maybe, In Another Universe, I let you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU day! :)
> 
> The use of Sommier was accidental - I didn’t know what it meant until I checked it - but now I do I find it very funny

He was the picture perfect Musketeer; his doublet buttoned, his cape hanging without mark or crease, his hat was not flamboyant but shielded his eyes from the sun.

About him hung a modest sword, a rather more elegant main gauche at his back. He carried one pistol, and a satchel bound for the Spanish border - payment for information from Treville’s favoured spy.

He hadn’t belonged to the regiment long, was known as something of a loner though he fought with exceptional skill and didn’t shirk his duties. He’d been bemused by the overtures of friendship by some of the company, but had gently rebuffed all who approached. Still, his appearance earned smiles and greetings, and he nodded in reply to each one as he crossed the yard under Treville’s watchful eye.

He mounted, and took a moment to salute his Captain before heading out in a clatter of hooves. It was a long ride to the border, days on horseback alone, and it would make best sense to ensure no delay.

Any witness, then, would be suspicious when he turned quickly from the main thoroughfare and into the sprawl of urban Paris.

She met him at the door, his horse held by a local boy grasping a shiny sou with the promise of one more if the horse wasn’t sold before he got back. The horse and its finery would be worth far more than the promised sou, of course, but somehow these things seemed to work. His mind didn’t linger long on the quandary, the sight of her after weeks apart was distraction enough.

The satchel was taken from him without ceremony, and opened before she had so much as greeted him. “Is this it?” she demanded with a scowl.

He’d be hurt, but he knew her better than that. “Please,” he soothed, taking the satchel back and stroking a hand down her arm. She shuddered minutely. “They’re testing me, still. Let this package arrive at its intended destination and the next will be greater.”

“And in the mean time,” she asked, eyebrow arched, lips a challenging grin. “What do I live on?”

He scoffed, pulling her in against his side. “Anne…” he sighed. “Do you truly expect me to believe you incapable? I’ve seen your work, and your reputation is the thing of legend in Paris.” Her grin took on a look of sly pride. “There is rumour the Duc du Sommier parted with an expensive heirloom in pursuit of his new sweetheart.”

“It’s hardly fit work for a Comtesse,” she declared, her smile far too pleased for the sighing denial.

Athos pulled back, turning his back because he’d never been able to hide his expression from her, “Then perhaps you should return to my brother. He will surely have laid claim to the title after my disappearance.”

“Shut your mouth, Musketeer,” she said, pushing him against the wall and closing her lips against his. “You have three days to return from Spain, any longer, and there will be… punishments.”

“Treville only expects me in five,” Athos half-gasped against her mouth as her hands wandered.

“Then we will have two days to enjoy your reward.”


	7. Day 7 - Memories are the key; Not to the past, but to the Future

She remembered when his first expression upon seeing her - whether first thing in the morning or returning from the village or simply returning to a room after a moment gone - was surprise and joy, as though he constantly expected her to be a fantasy of his own imaginings, gone in the next moment.

It took years of their marriage for the surprise to wear away, replaced by a peaceful contentment that warmed his countenance like no other.

For all those who had called him cold and bland in her hearing, she could barely comprehend their misunderstanding. Had they not met the man, could they not see the way a smile changed his face, creased his eyes and softened his shoulders? She didn’t understand until years later, watching him from a distance, unobserved. He was cold without her, warmed briefly in the presence of his brothers in arms, but even then his rare smile was a cool and distant thing.

Her presence, when revealed, incited heated rage, the passion of which was expected but the biting edge less so. He seemed broken before her, his eyes smudged with sleeplessness and his voice sharp with pain.

She didn’t regret that pain, it was only right that he should be reminded of how she suffered at his hand, and in the year of ensuring he could not forget her - filling his spaces, his waking moments and she dared hope his sleeping ones, she was pleased by the way hatred started to look an awful lot like desire on his face.

It surprised her, then, when she woke one day missing that look of joy. The thought lingered in her mind, not easily dismissed, the image of that younger face waking and being so immediately suffused with love. She remembered that man, loving and strangely innocent for all that he had seen war and bloodshed, and she missed him.

Things in France ended as they were always going to, of course, him with his brothers and her alone and without a home once more, and in the intervening years she remembered that young man less, and remembered better the proud soldier with a smile, not of joy, but of longing. It is that man she seeks out, once the long war had ended and her part as spy is exhausted.

The Captain at the garrison is not a man she recognises, but one she had once known; d'Artagnan has grown into himself, into his confidence and his height, and he seems remarkably pleased to see her, given how they parted. He smiles when she asks, and gives her directions, a horse in place of her tired mount and a knowing smile.

Pinon is quiet when she rides through, but the fields are heavy with harvest and the buildings are well cared for. The house, when she reaches it, is surrounded by the signs of carpenters and stonesmiths, some windows boarded and others standing open in the late autumn heat. She stands at the end of the road, her horse shifting quietly beneath her as she studies the landscape. The tree on the hill has been lopped of the branch that once was used to hang her, and the fields are high with barley, moving gently in the breeze.

She isn’t sure how to feel, for a moment. She resists the urge to return to Paris, to Le Havre, maybe even to England. She’s still frozen in place when the doors open and a figure appears within, cradling an infant. He will not have seen her, she can barely see him to identify him, and she still has a chance of escape. The child comes with implications, a mother, a wife. In those years when his memory has sustained her and called her home, he has forgotten her.

He reappears from around the side of the house, driving a cart with one hand, the other holding the child on his lap half-covered by his cloak. She must leave now if she’s not to be seen, but her desire to run has worn thin and when her horse greets the carthorse across the distance and Athos looks up from his precious burden, she is caught.

He cannot possibly have identified her, he’s still too far away and she is unexpected besides, but on his face is the start of a joy-filled smile.


End file.
